


Little Did They Know

by djchika



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Magical Realism, stranger than fiction AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djchika/pseuds/djchika
Summary: Art imitates life and life imitates art. Steve Rogers life is chronicled by, New York Times best-selling author, Nick Fury. The problem is, he's the only one who can hear him.Not knowing who the disembodied voice is, Steve rushes to prove he’s not crazy, ignore his feelings for his best friend, Bucky, and avoid what the voice says is his ‘imminent death’.[Check bottom notes]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are three people who helped me keep my sanity through all this: Kitty ([WinterRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRaven/pseuds/WinterRaven)) and W ([sosassyhl](https://twitter.com/sosassyhl) on twitter), my amazing betas and cheerleaders; and the incredibly talented Vins who picked my prompt (!!!) and gave it life. They are angels and should be showered with so much love.

-

_This is a story about a man named Steve Rogers._

_This is a story about a man nam_

_This is a story about a m_

_This is a story a_

-

Nick growled and slammed the backspace key. The cursor moved across the page, letters disappeared into the ether with every strike. It was the eighteenth time in the past hour that he had deleted and retyped the same sentence. Probably the thousandth damn time he’d done it in the past week alone. Why he thought this particular hour would be different, he had no motherfucking clue.

The cursor blinked on the now empty document. Accusatory. Exposing him for the talentless hack that he was. It didn’t matter six out of his seven novels were _New York Times_ best sellers. His books had all been the same, gingerbread men and women. _This_ book was supposed to break the mold. The one that would set him apart.

Gunshot-rapid pounding on his front door broke the hold the cursor had on him.

A blond man, clad in a dark purple muscle shirt and tattered jeans stood on his doorstep, a beat-up duffel bag swung over his shoulder.

“Your buzzer doesn’t work,” the guy said cheerily.

Nick set his eyebrows at a glower. Coupled with the eyepatch, he had sent more than one delivery boy scurrying. This one didn’t seem at all phased.

“Can I help you?” he asked, injecting as much ice into his tone as possible.

The man continued to smile at him. He was either being deliberately obtuse or simply had a death wish.

“Clint Barton. Your publisher sent me.”

Neither then. If he was from his publisher, he was probably soulless.

Clint bounced on his heels. Nick turned on his maximum glower but Clint stood there like an endlessly patient, blissfully ignorant golden retriever.

Nick sighed and let the guy in against his better judgement. “Sent you to do what exactly?”

“Run errands, hang out, anything to help those creative juices flowing. You’re two months behind schedule,” he reminded as if Nick hadn’t been wallowing in that knowledge for the past two months.

Asshole.

Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a vain attempt at alleviating the headache that was starting to form, but since he couldn’t get rid of the actual source of his headache it would have to do.

“ _Maria_ thought you’d be the best person to assist me?”

“My methods always work.” Clint had made himself comfortable, flopped down on the couch like a college kid fresh from spring break. ”I’m ordering pizza. You want any?”

Motherfucker.

Nick stalked back into his study and slapped a hand on the thin slice of wall between two bookshelves. A quiet beep followed by a woosh revealed his safe.

“You don’t have a gun by any chance do you?” Clint asked from the doorway where he was now eyeing Nick warily.

Nick made a show of pulling out his phone and dialing Maria’s number from memory.

Clint shrugged as he turned to go back to his perch. “Had to check. Hope you don’t mind anchovies on your pizza.”

Somehow it felt like his headache was getting a headache.

“This is your plan?” Nick barked into the phone as soon as Maria picked up. “Get someone to _annoy_ me into finishing my book? I don’t need a babysitter.”

“He’s efficient.” Maria’s calm would have annoyed him if he hadn’t been been subject to it for the past ten years. “And I know what makes you tick. If you want him gone, you know what to do.”

Nick glared darkly at his phone before tossing it back into the safe. He sat down on his desk and glared darkly at his laptop instead. Then, he tried to melt the document with the power of his mind alone. When that didn’t work he started typing.

-

_This is a story about a man named Steve Rogers._

_Steve Rogers..._

-

_...was a man people thought of as virtuous and brave. A proud veteran of his country. He was a war hero, and much to his chagrin, had one time been the literal poster boy of the United States Army. What people didn’t know was that despite the medals and accolades, Steve was far from the perfect soldier._

_The truth was St—_

The sound of a bugle horn blasted in his room. Steve woke up with a start. He bolted upright in bed, pushing off his sheets without success, tangling them around his legs as he tried to get up. One foot landed unevenly on the floor, while the other was left in the firm grip of his blankets, at which point gravity took over and in a second Steve was on the floor with a heavy thud.

He groaned, resting his cheek on the floor for a second to get his bearings.

_—gers on a good day was barely keeping it together._

_On a day like today?_

_He was a motherfucking disaster._

Steve pulled himself up, grimacing as the racket from his phone continued. Next door, Sam’s podcast penetrated the thin walls. The host’s voice flowed like waves rolling towards the shore, smooth but brusque, demanding attention and adding to the cacophony that had his head pounding.

_A lesser man would have admitted defeat. They would have wrapped themselves under layers of mediocrity and accepted the fatalistic nature of men._

_But not him._

_Every day St—_

Groaning loudly, Steve staggered to where his phone was threatening to vibrate off his dresser. There was nothing he could do about Sam at the moment, but he could at least turn his alarm off.

 _—eve spent 60 hours a week convincing himself that he was using his talents for a greater good. He was using his creativity responsibly. He was_ not _just serving a corrupt capitalist system that required more subterfuge than a night time assault._

He blamed the dull throb of pain in his head for the shoe that flew across the room, thumping loudly on the wall he and Sam shared. His relief when the voice didn’t start back up was worth Sam calling him an asshole.

Why the hell was Sam listening to that podcast so loud anyway?

Stripping off yesterday’s clothes, Steve forced himself into the shower and allowed himself a glorious minute of just standing under the hot spray. It was his last day of work and then he was off for two whole weeks. He just needed to get through it without throttling Hodge.

Asshole hadn’t even bothered to apologize. Not that Steve had expected he would. Hodge had been out for his blood even back when he had been a junior designer. Now that Steve was art director, it seemed like Hodge’s dislike had extended to Steve’s entire team.

_And while Hodge’s approach was more cudgel than artful sabotage, Steve still found himself having to dance around his attempts to undermine him._

_If the world was in any way fair, Hodge would wake up that same morning, change for work, then promptly spill coffee down his pants. He would then leave, walk down three flights of stairs, only to realize he’d left his keys on the table. After walking back up for his keys and walking back down, Hodge would then discover that a boot had been strapped to his car’s wheel. Didn’t matter why. The world was simply giving him his just desserts._

Steve smiled wistfully, as his imagination ran away with all the ways karma could screw over Hodge.

_Unfortunately, in Steve’s experience, the world had never given a shit about fair._

He shook off the thought. Great. Now the voice of that podcast host was stuck in his head.

Maybe if he tried hard enough he could drown himself in the shower.

-

By ten o’clock, he truly, fervently wished he had succeeded in drowning himself.

The start of the day had been uneventful enough. A large cup of coffee and a quiet hour to himself while he did a final review of the deck had taken the edge off his headache. Sadly, his good luck hadn’t lasted long. They were in their weekly projects update meeting and fucking Hodge wouldn’t stop clicking his goddamn pen.

_Click. Click click click. Click._

_The pounding of his headache matched the beat of the pen as it clicked again and again and again._

_Was it possible he had offended the universe in some manner? Had he, with his penchant for recklessly jumping feet first into situations, unknowingly crossed a cosmic being?_

_It had to be the only explanation._

_Click. Click click click. Click._

Digging his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, Steve pressed his lips together and inhaled deeply.

“You okay, Rogers?”

“I’m fine. Headache,” he explained to Phillips through gritted teeth. Their managing director gave him a skeptical look before returning to the list of projects they were discussing.

Phillips was still talking, but he was interrupted by a smooth, deep voice. Steve twisted in his seat, looking around for the source.

_Click. Click click click. Click._

_There were times in a person’s life when they’re pushed to the brink of no return. A supervillain origin story some would say._

_If Hodge didn’t stop what he was doing, Steve swore he would take his own motherfucking pen—_

Steve stared at the pen he was gripping as the voice continued.

_—and stab it into Hodge’s motherfucking eye._

He yelped and tossed the pen away from him. Everyone watched as it clattered across the table towards Gabe who raised both eyebrows at him. Steve ignored the stares and forced his face into a neutral expression.

What the hell?

Steve took a breath and then another. The last thing he needed was to have a fucking mental breakdown in front of his colleagues.

_Or maybe he could just spike Hodge’s coffee with laxative. As much as he’d like to be the type to take the high road, his similarities to Mr. Rogers started and ended with the name._

Steve surreptitiously watched the rest of the room, looking for some sign that they were hearing what he was hearing, but everyone was focused on Phillips.

It was fine. He wasn’t hallucinating. It was just an earworm. Like a song playing in your head again and again. Only instead of the Spice Girls, it was Sam’s podcast host.

Either that or he hit his head when he fell that morning and he was in the midst of a psychotic delusion.

He ran his fingers against the rough paper of his sketch pad as he breathed.

_The feel of the paper against his fingertips calmed him. Art had always been an escape for Steve. While he was deployed overseas, drawing was a way to forget the misery and loneliness. It was pure luck that he had met Erskine when he had come back stateside. Erskine had offered Steve a job in Enhance Creative despite his lack of experience, but had appreciated his love for the arts._

_Click. Click click click. Click_

_Erskine was also the reason he wasn’t going to stab Hodge with his own pen._

“Shut up,” Steve hissed.

Suddenly, multiple sets of wide eyes were on him.

“Excuse me?” Phillips asked, his usually surly expression wrinkling even further.

Steve flushed. “No! I wasn’t talking to you.” He turned to Hodge, plastering on a polite smile that paired with his murder eyes, probably made him look insane. “Can you please stop clicking your pen?”

Hodge raised his hands in mock surrender and slowly put his pen on the table. “You need to put your head down or something, big guy?”

A couple of people laughed with him. Gabe grimaced at Steve in commiseration. Phillips glared at all of them.

“If everyone’s comfortable, do you ladies mind if I continue?” he asked.

There was a cough at the other end of the table. Peggy was looking at Phillips meaningfully. “I’d be more than happy to sign you up for another gender sensitivity seminar, Colonel.”

Phillips pulled his lips into what he seemed to think was a smile. “Not necessary, Ms. Carter. As I was saying—”

Steve hunched into his chair, only half listening to the meeting. Maybe he was more sleep deprived than he thought. He waited for the voice in his head to continue, but it seemed to have disappeared along with the clicking of Hodge’s pen.

If he still believed in his mama’s God, he’d have sent up a prayer of thanks.

After another ten minutes of fidgeting through the meeting, he pulled out his phone. There was an 88% chance he was sleeping 24 hours straight, but not before he got grotesquely shitfaced.

“Meet me at the Howling Commandos tonight? I need a drink before I do something stupid,” he texted to the first name on his favorites.

“Don’t know if the drink will help with the stupid, pal, but you got it,” was the message he got back. Steve bit his lip to hide his smile as he pocketed his phone. He could almost hear Bucky’s sarcastic drawl in the reply.

He considered it a small miracle that he couldn’t _actually_ hear Bucky’s voice in his head.

-

_Lady Luck continued to ignore Steve. Instead, she was replaced by her infinitely pettier brother, Bad Luck Bob. After the incident with Hodge and the pen, he had almost gotten into a fight with an asshole harassing a woman at his sandwich place. Now the headache he had started the day with was threatening to turn into a full blown migraine._

“No shit,” Steve mumbled, “maybe it has something to do with you refusing to leave my head?”

Fuck. Now he was talking to what he had begrudgingly accepted was a hallucination.

He lay his head on his desk face down, pushing his forehead into the wood as if it would help push out the voice as well. All he needed was a nap. Just ten minutes and maybe he’d stop being haunted by the Ghost of Stating the Obvious.

His plans were interrupted by a knock on his doorless door frame.

“Ça va?” Gabe asked, obviously concerned for his state of mind.

Steve raised his head and quirked his lips into what he hoped passed as a smile. He was pretty sure it came out as more of a grimace.

“Juste fatigué.” He wasn’t going to worry Gabe over something that could be cured with a good night’s sleep. “H is an asshole,” he continued in French. He and Gabe had taken to slipping into it when they were discussing things they’d rather the rest of the office not know.

Gabe dropped into the fashionably quirky but highly impractical visitor’s chair in front of Steve’s desk. It matched the creative aesthetic of the rest of the office, but Steve knew from experience that it was hell on your back after a two-hour meeting. He practically had to fight Angie for his own boring but ergonomic office chair.

“I’d say it’s nothing a good two weeks out of the office won’t fix. If I know you though, you’ll be checking your email every night anyway.”

“Every other night. Pegs threatened to deactivate my access otherwise.”

_His headache didn’t stop him from noticing the lines creasing his friend’s forehead. It was easy to assume that he was simply worried about Steve’s aborted meltdown. Steve didn’t know that Gabe was worrying about another issue entirely. Regardless, instinct pushed him to ask if Gabe was okay._

“Are _you_ okay?” Steve asked. Gabe _did_ look like something was on his mind. Steve wasn’t just asking on the suggestion of a damn hallucination.

“You know how you said you wanted to go back to art school after you received your discharge?”

Steve chuckled. “You mean back when I was naive enough to think I could do that and work here at the same time?”

“Yeah, exactly. Well, I started applying for scholarships and—” Gabe placed his phone flat on Steve’s desk, his email app open.

Steve only needed to read the first sentence before his lips split into a wide grin. “Man, congratulations!”

_Conflicting feelings erupted inside him at Gabe’s news. Genuine happiness overwhelmed everything else, but underneath, where a small, petty part of him lived, left over from a childhood of being picked last for team games, was a resentment that Gabe had accomplished what Steve had been putting off for so long._

Steve bit his lip, cheeks heating up at having the ugly parts of him laid out like that. Even if it was just in his own head.

He resisted the urge to squirm guiltily and instead read through the rest of the email. When the name of the school finally sunk in, he looked up at Gabe, a smile back on his face. “You’re moving to Germany?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Gabe said cheekily, before reverting back to French. “It’s exciting, but the idea of telling Erskine is fraying my nerves. I’ve been working here since my mom died and I had to drop out of college. Erskine’s given me every opportunity since then. It feels like I’m being ungrateful—”

“Erskine would drive you to the airport himself,” Steve interrupted firmly. “He might actually join you. Visit the grandkids.”

Gabe visibly relaxed at the assurance. “Thanks, man. Try to keep the place from falling apart while I’m gone.”

“Who says I won’t be the one tearing it down.”

“If you and tête de noeud keep butting heads I wouldn’t be surprised.” Gabe said as he got up to leave. “The art courses looked pretty good too. Might be worth considering.”

_The memory of community art classes sparked a fire in Steve’s blood. He had never stopped sketching, but it had been years since he’d picked up a paint brush._

“Maybe after I take a nap,” Steve said obliquely, lowering his head back on his desk as Gabe left.

He closed his eyes. Gabe’s last words running through his mind.

Art school.

_Hope flirted with possibility, blooming in a mix of pastel and vibrant hues. A whole universe unfolded between the strokes, pulsing and thrumming, but before it could form into anything concrete, it was squashed by the hard stroke of reality. He had put off art school to join the army, then to work at Enhance Creative, and now time had sifted through his fingers all he had left was a handful of dust._

Steve raised his head and made a face at the heavens. “I am not _that_ dramatic.”

Then he let his head fall on his desk with a thunk.


	2. Chapter 2

Loud, brassy music greeted Steve as he entered the bar. The deep bass and the nasal whine of a saxophone was a relief after a day of having his head filled with a disembodied voice. A regular person might have sought professional help after a day of hearing voices, but not even a possible concussion could win over Steve’s bullheadedness.

He made his way to the bar, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink in this joint,” he called out, grinning when from the other side a hand shot up and gave him the finger. It was followed by a head sporting a bowler hat and a full moustache that would make the Pringles man envious.

“Put on one of those USO outfits and your drinks are on the house, Cap.”

Steve rolled his eyes at the nickname. He was no Captain, but his stint with the army included performing for a skit that had him masquerading as one.

He pretended to consider the frames on the walls displaying a variety of uniforms. Dum Dum had been in his unit and had left the army as soon as he was able. Then for reasons beyond Steve’s understanding, Dum Dum decided the first thing he’d do as a civilian was open a World War II-themed bar.

“I don’t think anyone here would benefit from seeing these legs in that skirt. But, hey, if you wanna risk it—” 

“You’re right. I can’t risk losing customers. You can be my guinea pig instead.” Dum Dum handed him a cold bottle of his newest craft beer. It was six to five and pick ‘em if it was poisonous but Steve erred on the side of optimism and accepted the drink. “What are you doing here this early? You’re usually slaving away until past midnight. Heard enough of the complaints from your missus.”

Steve fought down a blush at Dum Dum’s reference to Bucky.

_ Sixteen-year-old Steve hadn’t been immune to his best friend’s charms. _

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ he thought desperately as the voice started up again. He took a swig from the bottle hoping it would hide his mortification.

_ Bucky was no more than a year older than him, but he had quickly shaken off the awkwardness of puberty quickly while Steve’s had clung to him ‘til his eighteenth birthday. During those years, he hadn’t missed the way Bucky’s whole face lit up when he smiled. The feel of his breath against Steve’s skin whenever he pulled Steve in for a hug. It was an exquisite torture that he had bottled up and had kept a tightly guarded secret. _

“That bad?” Dum Dum asked, mistaking the grimace on Steve’s face for disapproval of his beer.

“No, it’s good,” Steve said even though the beer was the last thing on his mind. He pointed to their regular booth, eager to escape and curse his existence alone. “Tell Buck I’ll be at our usual.” 

_ Still, it was nothing more than a childhood crush. At least that’s what he told himself. _

“Because that’s what it is,” Steve mumbled petulantly. He pulled out his sketchpad and his pencil from his bag as soon as he sat down. If he wasn’t allowed any peace in his own head, he was determined to at least escape it for a while.

_ The lead of his pencil scratched lines on his sketchpad. Shaping his vague thoughts to a more concrete form. His job required that he limit himself to guidelines and templates, that he often chose to let his mind wander as he sketched. _

_ His fingers moved on their own as lush, full lips came to life on his page. A strong jaw, cheekbones that would welcome the brush of a kiss. Warm eyes framed by thick lashes. The irises a warm grey-blue if he had his colored pencils on hand. _

“Christ, Rogers, don’t you ever stop working?”

Steve’s head snapped up as Bucky slid into the booth, placing his own bottle on the table between them. He tried to take a peek at Steve’s sketchbook but Steve snatched it off the table unsure what Bucky would find. He hadn’t even realized he had been doing anything more than doodling.

“I’m not.” He slid the sketchbook and pencil back into his bag. “I’ve officially clocked out. Peggy said she’ll call me for emergencies, but other than that I’m a free man.”

“How’s that going? I thought you were going to ask her out.”

Steve tensed, waiting for his hallucination to start waxing poetic about Bucky again. Maybe a reference to Steve’s affection for feisty, brown-haired people. When it remained quiet, he let himself relax. 

“I was, but I learned she’s dating Angie.”

Bucky winced, although it seemed to lack his usual passion for defending Steve against the injustices of the world. “You’ve gotta be the world’s leading authority on waiting too long.”

“Is it waiting too long if they’ve been dating for five years?”

He bugged his eyes at Steve. “You’ve been working with Peggy since forever. How did you not know?”

“You’re the town gossip, not me. I thought you had class ‘til eight?” Steve asked, hoping the subject change would avoid additional discussions about his lack of a dating life.

_ Steve watched Bucky’s hands as he explained his latest project. He had always admired Bucky’s hands. Loved to sketch the knobs and calluses from working with his tools. His eyes moved to Bucky’s animated face and remembered the soft, pout of the lips in his sketch, the familiar spark of grey-blue eyes. He watched Bucky and imagined how it would feel to have those hands gripping his waist, imagined the dark, lust blown eyes, his long lashes fanning across the tops of his cheekbones. _

It took Steve a second before he realized Bucky had stopped talking. “What’s happening with your face?” Bucky asked.

“What?” Steve squeaked out. “I didn’t say anything.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph. If Bucky heard any of that he was pretty sure he was going to melt right through the floor.

“You look like you’re having a hard time breathing.” Bucky raised his beer to peer at the label. “You’re not allergic to whatever crap beer Dum Dum has, are you?”

“Just tired.” Steve bit his lip, looking away as Bucky stared him down. He’d never been able to lie to Bucky. He pulled a long drink from his beer.

_ If Steve allowed himself a second to lift his head from the mountain of sand he’d buried it in, he would realize that Bucky had been present in his sketches for as long as they’d known each other. Bucky had been present in every part of Steve’s life, seeping into every surface and filling every crevice. _

_ If he had, he would realize he wasn’t, as Bucky put it, ‘the world’s leading authority on waiting too long’. He was simply in love with his best friend. _

Steve spluttered, choking on his mouthful.

Wait, what?

“Okay, that’s it. Give me that,” Bucky grabbed the bottle from him as Steve wiped off the dribbling beer from his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

My hallucination just upgraded me from crushing innocently to lovelorn fool. He didn’t think that would go over well, so instead he asked, “You ever have a voice in your head that won’t go away?”

“It’s called common sense, Stevie. You should listen to it sometimes.”

Steve laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as maniacal as he felt.

The height of Bucky’s eyebrows on his forehead suggested that he thought Steve was definitely becoming unhinged.

“It’s been a long day,” Steve admitted. At least that was the truth. “Has a lot to do with Hodge.”

Bucky winced. “If we have to talk about that asshole we’re making a drinking game out of it. I’m getting shots.”

-

An entire bottle of vodka later, Steve wasn’t just pleasantly buzzed; he was downright drunk. The voice in his head was drunk too. Or maybe it was Steve who was drunk. The voice was just annoying. It was a good thing Steve’s brain was so full of bees that he could almost ignore the stupid voice that kept telling him stupid things that he didn’t want to stupid know.

Steve blinked. Maybe his head was  _ too _ full of bees.

He leaned heavily against Bucky as they walked out of the bar. Dum Dum tipped his hat at them as they left. Steve tried to do the same but he didn’t have a hat.

“I don’t have a hat,” Steve told Bucky morosely.

Bucky looked at him confused then smiled at him fondly. “You, my friend, are drunk.” 

“I already have a voice stating the obvious. Don’t need ya doing it too.”

“Sure you do,” Bucky said, now laughing outright. “You need me to tuck you in?”

_ It was an innocent suggestion, but the thought of taking Bucky in his bed zipped through Steve like a livewire. It would be so easy to take his face in his hands, pull him closer, and—  _

“Shut up,” Steve growled, trying to push away from Bucky. Thankfully, Bucky didn’t let him go because his feet didn’t seem to be working. Steve frowned down at them in disapproval.

“C’mon, we’re getting some coffee in you before I get you home.” Bucky raised his hand and magically a cab materialized in front of them. 

“You’re magic.” Steve patted Bucky’s chest before lunging towards the cab.

Bucky caught him, his arms encircling his waist so he didn’t hit the door face first. “Gotta open the door first, bud,” he said pulling open the door.

_ — sink into his strong arms. Their bodies crushing together, gasping at the unbearable heat. _

“I’m good!” Steve practically yelled as he spilled into the cab.

Bucky got in from the other side. Steve found himself both disappointed and grateful for the short distance between them. At the very least, he could stop thinking about all the different ways he seemed to want to sleep with his best friend.

Steve thunked his head against the window, watching under his eyelashes as the lights of the city streets play over Bucky’s face.

_ The lights of the Brooklyn Bridge danced over Bucky’s face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw and the scruff of his five o’clock shadow. His recent troubles paired with massive quantities of alcohol had unstoppered the bottle sixteen-year-old Steve had used to seal away his feelings for his best friend. It seemed fitting that the bridge would be witness to his epiphany. _

“You look so drunk,” Bucky laughed when he caught Steve looking.

_ Brooklyn was as much a character in his story as the people in it. His first project with Erskine had been a tourism campaign and he had made sure that along with the many icons of New York, the Brooklyn Bridge was front and center. _

_ Little did he know that the structure he so loved, the one he had put his heart and soul into, would eventually result in his imminent death. _

“MY WHAT?” Steve sat up, the contents of his stomach rolling and threatening to follow the path of least resistance out of his mouth.

Bucky moved closer and put a steadying hand on his nape. “Are you okay?”

“If you’re booting you have to get out of the car,” the driver said, a wary eye on him from the rearview mirror. 

“No— I’m fine. I’m just—” Steve trailed off, not bothering to address the confused glances both Bucky and the driver was throwing his way.

Steve thunked his head on the glass.

Perfect.

-

Nick leaned against the low wall that separated the rooftop from open air. He rolled the cigarette on the ledge, pushing it to the end with his fingertips and then pulling it back in.

He heard the open and close of the door, but didn’t acknowledge Clint’s presence until Clint had hoisted himself up on the wall. He sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building. Wholly unconcerned that they were more than a dozen stories up.

Clint leaned forward, far enough that Nick was marginally worried he would actually tip over before straightening back up, a giant grin on his face. “This is great. I love heights.”

“I come here to think. It’s  _ quiet _ ,” Nick stressed.

The hint was lost on Clint. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Nick pushed the cigarette stick with one finger, watched as it wobbled on the edge before its balance tipped and it fell over the side. “How exactly I’m going to kill Steve Rogers.”

-

The pulsing headache that greeted him as he woke up pulled a pathetic whine from Steve. He shuffled through his apartment, downed the bottle of water and the aspirin Bucky had left on his night table, then went and attempted to drown himself in the shower.

It didn’t work, but at least he felt less like gum scraped off someone’s shoe.

Steve lay down on the bed, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the morning. He had nowhere he needed to be. Dum Dum would store his bike until he could swing by for it and his phone was blissfully quiet.

He slowly sank into the edges of sleep when realization hit him. It was quiet.

No voice in his head verbalizing his thoughts with an impressive eloquence. No voice forcing him to face uncomfortable truths about his best friend. No voice informing him that he was going to  _ die _ .

Maybe he had just been really, really, really drunk.

Feeling even better now, Steve pushed himself off the bed. His hangover hadn’t receded enough that he could force himself to go for a run, but he could at least walk to the corner cafe and get a proper cup of coffee.

Steve walked back to the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush, letting his head blank out as he went through the motions.

_ The soft swish of the bristles against his teeth lulled Steve into a sense of peace. Back and forth, back and fo— _

Dammit. Not again. 

Steve groaned, ducking his head in defeat and almost deep throating his toothbrush. So much for a quiet day.

He started brushing his teeth again.

_ -orth. Back and forth. The bristles swish against his mola—  _

Steve stopped. He looked around as if he could find a hidden camera somewhere. Then started again.

_ \-- rs, ghosting over the gap where he had lost a tooth in 6th grade because of a back alley fight. _

He remembered that fight. It was the day he had realized Bucky’s dedication to him. The day Steve had decided that he would do anything to keep Bucky Barnes in his life.

Breathing heavily, Steve rinsed and wiped his mouth against his wrist. He stared at his reflection and muttered the words from last night under his breath. “Little did he know that the structure he so loved, the one he had put his heart and soul into, would eventually result in his imminent death.”

His death.

_ His _ death.

Screw that.

He had survived a childhood practically strapped down on his sick bed, an actual war and losing both his parents before he was eighteen.

_ It had been one of the many times Steve had proven that despite getting struck down again and again, he would always get back up. _

That’s right, Steve thought furiously. There was no way he was going to let whatever  _ this _ was take him down.

-

Forty-eight hours and a dozen rushed exams later, Steve was infinitely grateful for Enhance Creative’s generous medical benefits. He was also apparently at the peak of health.

-

The buzzing in his pocket, persisted as he bounded up his building’s stairs. He knew without looking that it was Bucky calling. He had been avoiding him since the night at the  _ Howling Commandos _ , making flimsy excuses about errands and having to do his laundry.

Aside from the mortification of having his feelings for Bucky laid out to him in painstaking detail, Bucky had a tendency to go full mother hen whenever he thought Steve was sick. There was no way he was telling Bucky about the medical test bingo he just went through.

He climbed up the last couple of steps to his floor, frowning when he realized that a bandaid was stuck underneath his shoe. He bent over to rip it off but before he could reach it there was a loud yelp and then Sam was sprawled out in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

“Dude,” Sam groaned. “You’re the size of a truck. It’s not easy to go around you when you stop like that.”

“That’s why you’re not supposed to run in the hallway,” Steve faux-scolded, as he pulled Sam up.

It gave Sam a close-up view of the thick envelope Steve was holding. He looked at the hospital logo then at Steve’s face, concern evident in his eyes. “Hey, man, are you alright?”

Steve tried to hide the envelope behind him which earned him an incredulous look from Sam.

“What would you say if I told you I was hearing a voice in my head?” he asked, sheepishly.

Sam frowned. “Is it asking you to do something that might harm yourself or people around you?”

“No! It’s just... It’s just kind of talking about... what... I do.“ Steve tapered off. Sam was going to think he was going crazy.  _ Steve _ thought he was going crazy.

“Like a GPS?”

“It’s not just transcribing where I go or what I do. It’s more descriptive. Almost like—” Steve floundered for how to describe his mental breakdown. Ironic considering how eloquent the voice in his head had been. Almost like it was painting with words the way he sketched with his pencils.

Like a writer.

Steve almost jumped in excitement, startling Sam. “It’s like a narrator. Like someone’s narrating my life.” 

“A narrator,” Sam repeated.

“Yes! Maybe if I find out who he is I can find out what the hell is going on.”

“Woah,” Sam held out a hand like he was afraid Steve was going to run off. “I’m not sure, but Steve, this sounds like something you need to take to a professional.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Steve asked, waving the envelope in Sam’s face. He took a deep breath. Hysterics wasn’t going to help his case. “I’m not crazy and I’m not sick. I have a team of doctors who says so. I just… have a writer stuck in my head.”

Oh god, maybe he was going crazy.

Steve’s enthusiasm deflated in the face of Sam. He was the most sensible person Steve had in his life, and if Sam thought he was insane, it was most likely true.

“A narrator,” Sam said suddenly, just as Steve was about to admit defeat. “I wanna say that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard, but sadly I’d be lying.”

“You believe me?” Steve asked, hopeful for the first time in the past couple of days.

Sam motioned towards his apartment door. “Let me send your results to a friend. A second opinion wouldn’t hurt. As for ID’ing your narrator, I might know someone who’d be able to help.”

-

“We could watch  _ American Crime Story _ .”

“Television?  _ That’s _ your suggestion?”

“I hear the Versace one is pretty good.”

“Steve Rogers is not a sociopath. Nor am I writing a crime story.”

“What is it then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your novel. What’s it about.”

“A story about the thin line between fate and choice.”

“Cool. Netflix has a new Ted Bundy series.”

“I’m going to go back to my study.”

-

Steve honestly didn’t know if he was relieved that nothing was medically wrong with him or if he was disappointed that the voice in his head couldn’t be explained away by science.

“You’re in perfect shape,” Sam’s curly-haired friend had said over Skype. “I’m — um— I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for?”

“We just wanted to make sure. Thanks, Bruce,” Sam had replied for him, seeming to sense Steve’s hesitation to share his situation.

From there he only had to answer a couple of questions before Sam was dragging him to the university campus. And because Bad Luck Bob was still out for him, the first person Steve saw was Bucky.

“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky practically yelled across the courtyard, unmindful of the heads turning their way. “Laundry? Really?”

_ Sunlight filtered through the trees, bathing Bucky in gold. _

_ He stalked across the courtyard, quick strides pulling his jeans taut against his thighs and showcasing the firm muscles underneath. Wisps of long hair had escaped his hair tie, blowing around his face, and framing intense blue eyes. _

_ Bucky seemed fully intent on murdering Steve, but what a way to die. _

“Steve?” Bucky asked, worried now that he was in front of Steve and Steve just continued to blink at him. 

It was one thing to be hearing the voice waxing poetic about Bucky’s body while he was drunk. It was another thing to be hearing the deep molasses thick voice objectifying Bucky while Steve was sober.

Steve really hoped that if he ever had sex again, there wouldn’t be a voice in his head recounting every detail.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Bucky yelled again, turning to Sam for answers.

“He says he’s hearing voices.”

“ _ Voices _ ? What do you mean he’s hearing voices?”

“Not voices,” Steve said, Bucky’s panic finally snapping him out of his reverie. “One voice. One. It’s kinda hard to explain in the middle of the courtyard.”

The embarrassed realization on Bucky’s face made it clear he had forgotten they were in public. He took a steadying breath, still glaring at Steve as if to remind him that regardless of his current drama, he had a large amount of groveling to do.

“Fine,” Bucky gritted out, obviously making an effort to control his volume. “You’re going to explain to me what you mean by hearing voices, then you’re going to explain why you’ve been avoiding me and also what the hell you’re doing here of all places?”

“I’m taking him to Nat,” Sam explained, happy to answer the only question with a simple answer, but it seemed to only confuse Bucky more.

“The Black Widow? What could she—” he stopped, putting up both hands so that his palms were level with Steve and Sam’s faces. Bucky quieted for a ten-second beat which Steve recognized from the many times Bucky had to reign in his temper whenever Steve got himself in trouble. “Okay, you know what. I’m coming with you. My last class got cancelled anyway.”

The Black Widow it turned out, was a red-headed woman who was practically a full head shorter than Steve if only she wasn’t wearing heels pointed enough that no airline would let her bring them onboard.

“Voices?” she asked, after Sam had introduced them and Steve had explained the situation. She was sitting on the edge of her desk, cradling a large cup of coffee. Steve had been led to the large overstuffed armchair in front of it, Bucky perched on its armrest next to him while Sam sat adjacent to him on a matching couch.

“One voice,” Steve and Bucky said at the same time. Bucky was still skeptical and kept looking around as if he was expecting Ashton Kutcher circa 2003 to jump out.

Steve knew exactly how he felt.

“One voice,” Natasha corrected herself. “Who’s narrating your life?” Steve nodded emphatically but she only quirked an eyebrow at him. “And what would you like me to do with this information, Steve?”

“Help me figure out who he is.”

Natasha sipped from her cup as she considered him then asked, “How are you sure it’s a real person? Maybe you’re just making him up.”

“I’m an art director. I couldn’t copywrite to save my life, let alone write prose.”

Bucky interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not true. Remember the speech you made during commencement?”

“Different forms of writing,” Natasha said, her nose wrinkling slightly as if she couldn’t believe someone would make such a comparison. “I still don’t know how you expect me to help you find her.”

“Him. It’s a male voice.”

She scoffed. “That narrows it down. Do you have any idea how many authors are men?”

“C’mon, Nat,” Sam chided. The amusement in his eyes made it seem like he had witnessed Natasha do the same thing multiple times. “Stop screwing with him. I’ve never known you to walk away from a mystery.”

“You’re no fun.” Natasha put down her cup and grabbed a pen and a pad of paper. “Fine. Aside from you, what does your narrator like to talk about? Observations about things, places,  _ people _ ?”

Steve couldn’t help the way his eyes moved to Bucky, his face immediately heating like a supernova when Sam and Natasha both looked at Bucky too.

“What?” Bucky asked. “I’m his best friend. Of course his narrator’s gonna be talking about me.”

Natasha smiled slowly, a feral cat who had just caught a scent. “Steve,  _ how _ does your narrator talk about Bucky?”

If his face got any hotter his skin was going to slough right off.

“Gosh darn, Stevie,” Bucky preened. “You’re gonna make me blush. Does your narrator have a little crush on me?”

“No, he thinks your hair is greasy and you eat too many onions,” Steve deadpanned. He might be wishing that the floor swallow him whole, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Bucky squawked in protest, but Natasha ignored him.

“Then why don’t you enjoy it? If it’s a romantic comedy, maybe it’ll end with happily ever after.”

Sam glanced at Bucky dubiously. “Or maybe it’s just a plain comedy.”

“Because if I don’t, I think something bad’s going to happen to me,” Steve said before Bucky could roast Sam back.

There was a moment of silence. Steve suddenly remembered he hadn’t told Sam about that part.

“Hold up—” Sam started, but Bucky spoke over him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Little did he know that the structure he so loved, the one he had put his heart and soul into, would eventually result in his imminent death,“ Steve recited, thanking his gene pool for his excellent memory. “He said it while we were passing the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Fella, if anyone’s going to kill you, it’s me,” Bucky said, furious. “You’re  _ not _ dying.”

“And no longer passing through the Brooklyn Bridge,” Sam added. The scowl he had directed at Steve told him he was going to be doing a bit of groveling with Sam too.

Steve focused on Natasha, who at the moment was the only person in the room not freaking out. Steve included. “That’s why I need to find out who the narrator is. So I can find out what he meant and if I can stop it.”

“Little did he know.  _ Little did he know _ .“ Natasha was staring back at him so intensely she almost looked manic. “As I said, men in the literary field are a dime a dozen. Writers who can wield the power of ‘little did he know’, now that’s something to go on.” She started scribbling on her pad, muttering to herself after every other line.

When ten minutes passed and she still hadn’t said a word to them, Steve cleared his throat. The surprise on her face making it clear she had forgotten they were still there. “Right. Sam stay and help me. Steve, meet me back here tomorrow.”

Bucky frowned at the dismissal. “So he’s just going to wait? What if this whole imminent death thing happens before then?”

The glare Natasha threw at Bucky had Steve worried  _ Bucky’s _ death would be imminent. She seemed to find reason in Bucky’s inquiry though, because she said, “So far it seems your narrator has been chronicling your life. Why don’t you try controlling it and see what it does. Respond to situations, to stimuli in a way you usually wouldn’t. As out of character as you possibly can.” She turned to Sam, grabbing her pad as she walked towards the door. “Come on, you’re coming with me to the library.”

Sam eyed the pensive look on Bucky’s face and raised his eyebrows at Steve. “Good luck, man,” he said, clasping him on the arm before leaving to follow Nat.

Bucky didn’t even bid them goodbye. He sat on the armrest, staring at Steve like he was one of the machines he liked to pull apart and then put back together.

Steve did not like that look one bit.

-


	3. Chapter 3

Steve did not like this one bit.

“If this voice in my head doesn’t kill me, that definitely will.”

“Always so fuckin’ dramatic.” Bucky rolled his eyes as he slung an arm around Steve. 

_ Coney Island was another in the vast list of characters of Steve’s life. Countless summers had been spent on its rides, traversing its boardwalks or simply dangling their legs of a pier. There were a dozen other places in New York that had been witness to both his joy and heartbreak. Coney Island remained a bastion of good memories that was untainted by the bad. _

‘Good to know we’re deciding to gloss over all those moments of utter humiliation,’ Steve thought at the narrator.

He let himself be lead forward as he stared at the monstrosity in front of them. He hadn’t been on the Cyclone since they were eleven and Bucky realized Steve was finally tall enough to ride it. Eleven-year-old Steve had been thrilled with the idea. His stomach hadn’t been as thrilled post-execution. Steve reminded Bucky as such.

“The Exorcist had nothing on you.”

“Glad that was a good memory for you, buddy,” Steve said dryly, not at all surprised at Bucky’s irrational pride for Steve’s ability to projectile vomit.

_ More than endless summers of fingers sticky-sweet with ice cream or the mouth-watering scent of freshly popped popcorn, Coney Island was the place where at sixteen, Steve had realized his feelings for his best friend. _

Steve was starting to think his narrator had a crush on Bucky.

“Out of character, remember?” Bucky asked, thankfully drowning out the voice. “You swore up and down that you’ll never get on it again. What’s more out of character than you breaking a promise?”

“The Wonder Wheel sounds like a good compromise.”

Bucky gave him a wolfish grin and pulled him tight against him so that Steve was practically bent double and suffocated by Bucky’s armpit. “You mean a romantic ferris wheel ride with me? Your pal, your buddy, the apparent love of your life?”

_ Now that they were back in the scene of the crime, Steve couldn’t help the swirl of emotions in his chest, twisting and turning like the rollercoaster he so hated. But all of that seemed to fade into background, at that moment, nestled in Bucky’s arms, it was like he had found his place in the world. _

Steve made a face. Now he wondered if his narrator was right in the head. An inch away from Bucky’s pit stains was not what Steve thought as ‘his place in the world’.

“You’re right,” Steve said, his face still smushed against Bucky’s side. “Let’s go on the ride that has a ninety percent chance of me puking on you.”

-

Through a combination of meditation and intense jaw clenching, Steve thankfully did not lose his lunch post-Cyclone. He was, however, a little greener around the gills when he saw the plate Bucky had pushed towards Steve.

“Jesus, Buck. Are you  _ trying _ to make me throw up?”

To anyone else, it was an innocent hotdog piled high with onions. To Steve it was the enemy. His mother had gone on a natural remedies kick at some point in his childhood and after having them stuffed down his socks for weeks, he had never eaten another onion again.

Bucky knew that which was why his smile seemed to hold a malevolent gleam. Steve genuinely wondered how he even developed feelings for this asshole.

“It’s one sandwich. We’ll grab candy apples after. Wash the taste out.”

“Remember when Becca would give you the stink eye cause you’d choose to spend your dessert money on candy apples over ice cream?”

A bright grin formed on Bucky’s face. “Except that one time you got into a fight with Ricky Rafferty and I had to buy an ice pop to put on your black eye. Worth it to see you put that jerk in his place.”

“If I remember correctly, you had a matching one of your own. I got us into some mighty jams, didn’t I?” Steve asked, sheepish.

“To the end of the line, pal,” Bucky teased, but the look in his eyes made it clear he meant every word. Just like every time Bucky had ever said it.

It was suddenly very easy to remember why it was easy to fall in love with Bucky.

Steve wrinkled his nose, hoping to hide the sudden heat in his cheeks. “I still don’t think this is a big enough deal to impact my fate.”

“Run your mouth when you’re done eating it, Rogers.”

It was as good as a dare. Steve stuffed half the hotdog in his mouth in one go. He realized his mistake the moment the sour spicy tang hit his taste buds. A shudder of pure revulsion went through him, his eyes watering and jaw slackening in protest.

Bucky was practically pounding the table from laughing so hard.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Steve said, uncaring that he was spraying bits of chewed up bread at Bucky’s direction. Served him right if he got hit. 

“Hey, at least I made you eat it  _ after _ the rollercoaster.” Bucky waited until Steve swallowed before asking, “So this narrator of yours. He just says things that already are?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “And when Natasha said he could be writing a romantic comedy. What does that make me? Roguishly charming love interest? Sassy gay best friend?”

“If anything you’re the plucky sidekick,” Steve teased back, taking another big bite of his hotdog before Bucky could ask any more questions. “I’m going to repel anyone who comes within five meters of me,” he moaned through the mouthful.

“I don’t care what your narrator says, I ain’t kissing you until you’ve had an hour alone with a toothbrush.”

With his mouth still full of onions and hotdog, Steve glared at Bucky, giving him the most eloquent fuck you his eyebrows could manage.

Unphased, Bucky just grinned back. “Wait until you see what I have planned next.”

-

The moment Morita laid eyes on them, his eyebrows shot up in suspicion. “What’re you two up to?”

Steve plopped himself down on a seat, ignoring Morita to bemoan his fate. It wasn’t good manners to go around ignoring the establishment’s proprietor but Morita wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t know good manners if it bit him in the ass.

“We’re taking advantage of your karaoke machine,” Bucky announced.

_ Fresno  _ wasn’t so much a karaoke bar as it was a restaurant that every now and then had performers entertaining their guests. Unless it was a karaoke night, then it devolved into bad singing and two for one drinks.

Which was exactly what tonight was.

Morita did not look appeased. “I repeat my earlier question: What’re you two up to? Wasn’t there a blood pact where Steve said he’d never set foot here when the machine was plugged in?”

“We’re trying something new.” 

“Right,” Morita drawled, focusing his judgmental eyebrows on Steve. Steve wanted to protest. Bucky was the mastermind of this operation. Then again, nine out of ten it was Steve’s plans that got them into trouble so he figured it was a fair assumption.

“Song book?” Bucky asked, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

Morita waved at someone to hand him the book then passed it on to Bucky. “Try not to destroy my place while you’re at it.”

Steve whimpered pathetically as Morita left to avoid the carnage.

_ If you were to go through his files in basic, they would say that Steve Rogers was an excellent soldier. He had been sickly as a child, but had shaken off most of his ailments as his body settled post-puberty. It would say that he had an exceptional tactical mind, the heart of a leader, and a chip on his shoulder the size of Queens. It would also have a list of his many feats. With the help of bullhead stubbornness and an enabling best friend by his side, Steve Rogers had acquired an impressive collection of skills. _

_ Unfortunately, singing was not one of them. _

“Why don’t you write in that I can sing like a nightingale instead of once again stating the obvious,” Steve growled at the voice.

Oblivious to his woes, Bucky was acting like his birthday had come early. No, it was more than that. Not even Bucky’s birthday could make him do this. Steve had been forced on stage many a time in his life, but never had he ever let anyone convince him to sing karaoke.

“It’s just like when we were in the army,” Bucky said as he flipped through the pages.

“The army made me read things off a script. Not attempt to warble tunelessly at an audience.”

“Same thing if you think about it.”

“I’m a dead man walking,” Steve moaned. “Please don’t make me sing anything too embarrassing.”

“You’re not dying,” Bucky said, leveling him with a hard look. He turned back to the book, an evil grin spreading on his face once more. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you. We’re doing a duet.”

Steve was pretty sure it was meant to be reassuring. However, knowing Bucky, it was going to be twice as mortifying.

“It’s a surprise,” Bucky said, twisting away when Steve tried to grab the piece of paper with the song title.

Thirty minutes later, when they were both on stage and he finally saw the title on the machine, Steve gave Bucky an unimpressed look.

“ _ I Will Survive _ ?” Steve hissed over the first few notes. “Seriously, Buck?”

“It’s a literary whatever. Ask the Black Widow what it’s called.  _ At first I was afraid, I was petrified _ ,” he crooned, his face way too close to Steve’s.

Steve rolled his eyes and launched into the song with Bucky, him barely mumbling through the words, Bucky hamming it up like he was channeling Gloria Gaynor herself. The chorus seemed to energize Bucky even more. He grabbed Steve’s hand, leading him into an uncoordinated dance that had Steve tripping over his feet.

Bucky let out an  _ oof _ when Steve fell against him. “You gonna let me lead or you gonna fight me all the way?”

“We can’t all be Fred Astaire.”

“Nah, you just need to trust your dance partner.”

Steve scowled. “I trust you. I trusted you to have my back when we were in the open desert getting razed by—” his rant was cut off with a gasp when Bucky placed a hand at the small of his back and easily dipped Steve.

_ Dancing, however, had always been a secret joy for Steve. It didn’t matter that it didn’t come naturally to him. Steve dreamed of the perfect dance with the perfect partner. He once thought he would never find them. It was possible he had simply been looking at all the wrong places.  _

Bucky’s eyes were soft as he stared at Steve. “A little practice and you can be my Ginger Rogers.”

Steve was grateful that the gaudy stage lights were at least hiding most of his blush as Bucky brought him back up.

“You’re supposed to be singing! This isn’t Dancing with the Stars.” Morita heckled from the bar.

Bucky rolled his eyes and Steve knew he was resisting the urge to give Morita the finger. It was a family-friendly place after all. Instead, he slung an arm over Steve pulling him close as he sang.

By the time the song wound down, Bucky was doing all the singing, as Steve wheezed with laughter.

A smattering of applause came from the gathered crowd and Bucky graciously curtsied. Steve did the same when Bucky gestured grandly at him. Still laughing, they both moved off the stage and to the small alcove leading to the kitchens. Steve found himself pressed between the wall and Bucky as they both caught their breaths.

“I think this is the part of the romantic comedy when the gorgeous but relatable hero kisses the adorkable best friend,” Bucky murmured, cheeks glowing pink even in the dark light.

_ With every tick on Bucky’s list, Steve’s life had opened to possibility. He had never been one to leave limits untested, but Bucky was the one constant in his life. He hadn’t even realized he had been the one setting boundaries between them. _

“Yeah, which one of us is which?” Steve sassed, somehow calm despite the way his heart was pounding in his ears.

“Does it matter?”

He could feel the ghost of Bucky’s breath against his lips and for one insane moment, Steve imagined that Bucky was moving incrementally closer.

_ Hope laced through him. It was the beginnings of a fairytale ending. Or it would have been. If only Steve’s inevitable demise wasn’t waiting at the turn of the page. _

Fuck.

None of it had helped. He was still going to die.

Steve pushed away from Bucky. He stalked towards the kitchen, startling the cooks and the staff. He pushed against the door that lead to the alley with all his strength. Relished the bang as it swung against the wall.

If he was the type, he would be cursing the heavens in futility. Since he’d had enough of one-way conversations to last him a lifetime, he settled on kicking the dumpster in futility instead.

He didn’t notice the door open until Bucky was a few feet away from him, hands in his pockets and staring calmly as Steve beat up an inanimate object.

“What that dumpster ever do to you, Stevie?”

Ignoring Bucky he paced the short space of the alley. It was almost midnight. Calling Natasha was out of the question.

“Is this because of what I said—”

Steve barely heard what Bucky was saying as the narrator continued its monologue in his head. 

_ It didn’t stop him from wanting Bucky. Didn’t stop him from imagining the white picket fence and the 2.5 kids. It might be possible, if Bucky didn’t strangle him first. _

Bucky grabbed him by the shoulders. “Can you stay still for one fucking minute?”

_ Despite his anger and confusion, it was concern that floated above the emotions swirling in Bucky’s eyes. Underneath all that was an endless ocean of love that Steve had always taken for granted, had always mistaken for family and brotherhood, but maybe, maybe meant more. _

_ Steve took a step —  _

“No.” The vehemence in Steve’s voice seemed to startle Bucky who gave him a hurt look.

_ Steve took a step forward towards —  _

“No, I’m not,” he repeated.

“Okay, calm down.” Bucky let his hands drop from Steve’s shoulders.Steve stumbled forward but caught himself. 

_ Steve took a step forward towards Bucky —  _

“I said no,” Steve hissed, planting his feet solidly on the ground and refusing to take another step. If anything was going to happen between him and Bucky, it was going to be because of him. Not because of some damn voice.

_ —but like the thousand other moments that had transpired between them, he allowed it to trickle away, another opportunity lost. _

“Steve?” Bucky’s hurt had morphed into worry, as if he had realized Steve hadn’t been talking to him all along.

Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How was he supposed to explain everything that had just happened? There was no way. Instead, he did the one thing he never thought he’d ever do.

He ran away from Bucky.

-

“You don’t have any board games here, do you?”

NIck shifted the glare he had been throwing the blank piece of paper and focused it on Clint. He had sat down at 5 a.m., had written approximately ten sentences on his laptop, and decided to try longhand. It hadn’t worked.

“Board games?” he asked slowly as if he had never heard the word before. The last thing he needed was a distraction. Not when it felt like his characters were fighting him every step of the way.

“Yeah, you know, good fun for the whole family type games?”

“I have a chess board.”

“Great. Come play with me.”

Nick scowled, preparing to ignore Clint and continue glowering at his laptop. When Clint just continued to stand by his doorway, he threw him a last baleful glare before slamming his laptop shut and standing to get his chess set.

-

The sound of the ticking clock filled the room as Steve sat on Natasha’s uncomfortable couch and waited as patiently as he could while she assessed him with an equally uncomfortable gaze.

 

At first Natasha had stared at him as if she wasn’t sure Steve wasn’t a mirage. Then she had filled a cup full of coffee and gulped it down in one breath. Then she filled it again and did the same thing.

To her credit, it had been seven in the morning and Steve had basically stalked her office all night until she had arrived.

When she was done with a third cup of coffee and looking marginally present in their dimension, Steve had launched into a retelling of the night’s events.

Natasha stared at him for another minute before she finally straightened and said. “I’m sorry, Steve. From what you’ve told me, it seems your path may not be fixed, but your destination is. It’s the format of all Greek tragedies. The more the character tries to change their fate. The more it’s helped along. If I were you, I’d want to get my affairs in order.”

“If you were in my position you’d just give up?” Jesus, he sounded hysterical. Steve ran his hands through his hair, keeping his palms pressed against his nape. 

“No. If I were in your position, I’d down a bottle of vodka and go out the way I’d want to go. I wouldn’t wait for some higher being to decide for me.”

Steve had to chuckle at her honest answer. Natasha smiled as well. 

“But if I were you, and there were people I needed to say goodbye to, I’d do that. Not because I’ve given up, but because I wouldn’t want to lose the chance to say something before it’s too late.”

“You’re saying I should at least  _ try _ for the happily ever after?”

Natasha didn’t answer him. She stood up and patted Steve on the shoulder. “I’m supposed to meet Sam in an hour. We haven’t given up and neither have you. But contingencies aren’t a bad thing to think about.”

-

He was so busy thinking about what Natasha had said, that he didn’t realize the voice he was hearing was coming from his apartment and not his head. Steve rested his head tiredly on the door. He could pretend he hadn’t just unlocked his door, but the sound of Jeopardy had already lowered to an unintelligible murmur which meant Bucky knew he was there.

Before he could even turn the knob, Bucky had already thrown the door open, his expression livid. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Welcome to my apartment, Bucky. Make yourself comfortable,” Steve couldn’t help snarking as he entered his own home.

Bucky gave him a look that clearly said ‘ _ don’t give me that shit, Rogers _ ’. It was a look he had learned well from Steve’s own ma.

“I’ve been waiting for you since last night! You left your phone behind at Fresno. Dammit, Steve. For all I know you could have fallen into a frozen lake and drowned.”

“It’s the middle of summer, Buck.”

“I didn’t say it was a rational fear. You have a narrator stuck in your head. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“I took a walk around the city,” Steve snapped, the lack of sleep and general frustration getting to him. “Eventually, I went to Natasha.”

“Did she—”

“They’re still on it, but nothing yet. She said I should get my affairs in order.”

“Fuck that.”

“Buck—” Steve massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, the other hand gripping his waist tightly. “All I want is to get some sleep. Whatever this shit is, I can deal with it tomorrow.”

“And if this whole ‘imminent death’ business happens before then?” 

“Then it happens!” Steve exploded. “Everyone mourns, you throw me a great funeral and eventually everyone moves on. It’s death. It happens to everyone.”

Bucky growled, getting into Steve’s face. “Not to you. Not now. You think I’m going to just move on if I lose you? Good luck on that, pal. You’re stubborn and god knows that you’re a pain in my ass, but you’ve never been the type to quit and you’re not doing it now. I’m  _ not _ going to lose you.”

Even without the narrator’s help, Steve could identify every spec of emotion in Bucky’s burning blue eyes - frustration, anger, desperation, need, love. So much love that it caught Steve in a dizzying wave.

“You’re in love with me,” Steve said softly, stunned.

Bucky pressed the heels of his palms to the sides of his head as if being around Steve physically pained him. “You such an idiot. How is this possible that I’ve been saddled with the slowest, most thick headed—”

“You’re in love with me,” Steve repeated.

“Oh my god!” This time Bucky actually threw up his arms. “Yes! I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. Did you really need a voice in your head to tell you that?”

Steve bit his lip then said almost shyly. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Bucky gaped at him like it was Steve’s fault they had been living in a stalemate for as long as they had. He raised a finger at Steve then closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Steve couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him. Bucky opened one eye and glared.

“You’re ruining my zen.”

“You’re ruining the moment,” Steve pointed out, cheekily.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You are the most stubborn, most infuriating—”

Not waiting for him to finish, Steve grabbed Bucky’s face with both hands and pulled him in for a kiss. There was a stifled squawk from Bucky, but then he was kissing Steve back.

God, Bucky was right. He didn’t know what they had been waiting for. The kiss sparked across every cell in Steve’s body, lighting up hollow spaces he never knew he had. It was everything he had dreamed of since he was sixteen years old and had caught a glimpse of cotton floss sticking to Bucky’s bottom lip. Steve pressed closer, his hands easily sliding underneath Bucky’s shirt and sliding against warm skin there.

“Gotta buy me dinner first,” Bucky said breathlessly when they broke apart.

“After all these years of listening to your first date sleepovers and you’ve decided to get standards now?”

“You’re right,” Bucky said with a shrug. He crowded against Steve until they both fell into the couch. “Not gonna pretend I don’t want you naked.”

Steve laughed against Bucky’s mouth. There was an empty sandwich container and an open bag of chips on the coffee table. Jeopardy was still playing while muted on the TV. He was pretty sure a Cheeto was digging into his back.

It was perfect. They fit against each other as if every second they had spent in each other’s lives had shaped them into who they needed to be at that moment. 

He cupped a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and pulled him down, using his lips and tongue to turn the kiss deep and dirty. They were both eager, hands and mouths spanning every inch of skin they could reach. Slow was reserved for later. Steve was surprised they didn’t tear anything in their haste to remove their clothes.

As soon as Bucky had kicked off his boxers, he was back to mouthing against Steve’s neck. It was heat like Steve had never felt before. The wonder of being in love with Bucky, of Bucky being in love with him, mingled with the haze of lust wrapped around him and carried him into the stratosphere.

“Oh god, Bucky—” Steve gasped when Bucky lowered his head so that he was running his tongue against the head of Steve’s cock.

“You’re not going to believe how many times I got off thinking about this,” Bucky said, before lowering his head again and taking Steve in his mouth in one go.

Steve didn’t try to bite back the moan that rumbled in his chest. He buried his hands in Bucky’s hair, babbling incoherently as Bucky used his mouth and tongue to turn Steve’s brains inside out.

He surrendered to the sensation, let Bucky drown him and take him apart until his body was pulling taut with a never-ending  _ yes, yes, yes. _

“Stop looking so fucking smug,” Steve growled when Bucky moved back up Steve’s body, a cocky smirk on his face. He pulled him in for a kiss, his hand wrapping around Bucky’s cock and making him moan against Steve’s mouth.

It was Steve’s turn to smirk when he felt how Bucky’s cock was practically dripping with pre-come.

“Steve,” Bucky groaned, his voice a breath away from pleading as Steve stroked him slowly. “Make me come before I kick your ass, you little punk.”

“Bet you’d wanna do a lot of other things to my ass,” Steve whispered low against Bucky’s ear as his hand sped up, twisting with every upstroke.

“ _ Fuck _ . Steve, Steve, Steve—” Bucky kept moaning Steve’s name as he came spilling over Steve’s fist, gasping for air.

For a minute, the room was filled with nothing but their harsh breathing and the pounding of their hearts.

But of course, Bucky had to ruin it.

“Oh god,” he said, grabbing Steve’s shirt off the floor and cleaning them both up. “I just had the most meaningful orgasm of my life in front of Alex Trebek. I can never go on  _ Jeopardy _ .”

Steve looked over at the TV where  _ Jeopardy _ was indeed still on. “That’s what you retain from all of this?”

“You’re also a good lay if that helps,” Bucky replied, settling over Steve and seeming to decide he was staying there for the foreseeable future.

Steve wasn’t going to complain.

-

To his left, the timer ticked loudly, counting down the seconds.

Fury eyeballed the entire chess board. Quick calculations showed him every possible series of moves Clint could choose. It didn’t make sense.

“Why did you sacrifice your queen for a pawn?”

“Why do we ever sacrifice anything?” Clint asked, looking to the horizon. “The promise of a bigger prize in the end.” He paused, then turned to Nick with a shrug. “That or you made a stupid move and you can’t take it back.”

Nick stared at the board. For a second, it seemed like time stood still. Gone was Clint’s incessant chatter. Gone was the unrelenting ticking of the clock.

He moved his pawn and took Clint’s queen.

Smiling to himself, Fury leaned back and crossed his arms, the queen still in his hand.

“I’m going back to writing. Tell Maria I’ll be done with the book by tonight.”

-

Bucky laughed when a loud growl came from the general area of Steve’s stomach. “Romantic.”

“I forgot I haven’t eaten anything since that hotdog.”

“I’d offer to make you something but I checked your kitchen. There’s nothing in it. I had to grab a sandwich from the bodega last night.”

“Pizza?” Steve asked hopefully.

Bucky nodded, whining sadly when he realized that he’d have to get up to make that happen. With a quick kiss on Steve’s lips, he got up and pulled on his boxers while dialing on his phone.

Remembering that he hadn’t checked his own phone since yesterday, Steve grabbed it off the coffee table. He frowned when he realized it had gone and died on him.

He forced himself off the couch as well. Might as well grab a shirt while he went to plug in his phone since Bucky had gotten jizz on all over it.

“Pizza’ll be here in thirty,” Buck said when Steve came back, still in the process of pulling on his shirt. Bucky was back on the couch, his attention back on his  _ Jeopardy _ marathon. He patted the cushion beside him. “I demand post-orgasm cuddles.”

“How about a post-orgasm shower instead?”

Bucky’s answer was a plaintive whine.

Alex Trebeck gave his contestants a moustache-y smile. “So Gerry, Carla and Rick good luck. Here we go. Categories are: Spoken Word, My “Man”, Muses, Birds of a Feather, Up up, & Beyonce”

“The Spoken Word. A thousand,” the contestant replied.

“Amateur. Everyone knows you shouldn’t jump to the big ticket ones right away.”

“Sure, Buck.”

From the, TV Alex Trebeck said, “In this category, a mystery guest will read a quote from him or her work.”

Steve grabbed the remote, ready to coax Bucky into the shower with him when the video played. He froze as the familiar, deep voice filled the room.

"How desperate am I? You threaten my world with war, you steal a force you can't hope to control, you talk about peace, and you kill 'cause it's fun. You have made me very desperate.”

“Who is Nick Fury,” Bucky said, in time with the contestant. He was too busy being pleased with himself, it took him a second to realize Steve was gaping at him.

“What?” He looked down as if to make sure that nothing was on his pajamas then looked back at Steve.

Steve pulled himself together to hit rewind to pause on the frame of Nick Fury. “That’s him.”

“Who?”

“My author.”

-

Nick shook out the cramp on his hand.

Smiled.

Then went back to writing.

-

“This is bad,” Steve followed Bucky’s path as he paced in front of the kitchen table. The pizza had arrived, and even the discovery hadn’t beat out Steve’s need for sustenance.

He pushed away his empty plate, a little more present now that his stomach wasn’t angrily growling at him. “Look, we just need to go to Natasha and ask for her help. It’ll be okay.”

“No, it won’t. Not when it’s Nick Fury. His novels are a mix of existential prose and fatalistic poetry. Comparing and contrasting these two opposing ideologies and somehow creating a masterpiece that makes you question everything you know about either.”

Steve boggled at him. “You’ve been hanging out at those hipster coffee houses way too much.”

Bucky gave him the finger because even though they were now dating - if having sex once counted as a date - some things never changed.

“I’m a well-rounded individual, Steven.” Then he proceeded to pound on the wall that Steve and Sam shared. “Sam! Are you home? I can hear you moving! Come over! It’s an emergency!”

In less than a minute Sam was in Steve’s living room glaring first at Bucky then at Steve. “Shut your boy up before the neighbors call 911.”

Despite the situation, Steve felt a thrill at Bucky being called ‘his boy’ and it actually being a reality.

“He figured out his author,” Bucky explained quickly. “We have to get to Natasha and see if she has any connections that can get us in touch with this guy. He’s not exactly J.D. Salinger, but he’s also not on Twitter reaching out to fans.”

“Slow down, what happened?”

Steve stopped Bucky from repeating his cascading waterfall of words. “I’ll explain in a second. We need to ask Natasha if she can get in touch with Nick Fury.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Nick Fury is your author?”

“Yes. best-selling author, yada yada yada,” Bucky clapped his hands as if to tell Sam to chop chop.

Sam gave him the finger then said, “Nick Fury. Best-selling author and also my father’s best friend who I’ve known my whole life.”

“You have got to be shitting me—” Steve said at the same time as Bucky yelled, “Call him!”

“I can’t. He literally keeps his phone in a safe when he’s writing. Total blackout,” Steve was about to lose hope when Sam added, “But I do know where he lives.”

-

Fury’s fingers were a blur of motion as he typed out his barely legible scribbles.

_ Steve raised his hand and knocked on the door. _

A loud knock rapped on the front door.

_ Steve did it again. _

There was another series of knocks.

Through his study’s open door he saw Clint start to get up slowly.

Fury paused.

Frowned.

Then slowly typed the next line.

_ He did it a third time. _

A rapid pounding echoed through the apartment.

Pushing his chair back roughly, Nick raced out of his office, past a trudging Clint and pulled open the front door.

-

The door swung open so fast, a pile of papers flew off a side table with the gust of wind it made.

Steve stared at the man in front of him and the man stared back.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but before he could the man beat him to it.

“Motherfucker.”

-

It was the second time in so many days that Steve found himself sitting on an uncomfortable couch, subjected to an uncomfortable gaze.

This time, he was surrounded by Bucky, Sam and Natasha — who, given pain of death, Sam insisted they needed to pick up.

Nick sat in an armchair in front of him, his assistant, Clint, hovering nearby.

“So this whole time. Everything I’ve written. Even—” he gestured between Steve and Bucky.

Varying reactions swept across the group.

“You slept with me because  _ he _ said so?”

“No,” Steve replied, looking at Nick and then at Bucky. “ _ No _ . Childhood pining remember? He didn’t have a hand in any of it.”

That seemed to placate Bucky, but on his other side, Sam looked torn between horror and utter hilarity. “You wrote about them having  _ sex _ ?”

“I faded to black—” Nick said, looking petulant. Or as close to petulant as it was possible for him to look.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Maybe we should focus,” she reminded, although even she had a small smirk on her face.

Steve appreciated the save either way. “Early in your novel, you said: Little did he know that—”

“—the structure he so loved, the one he had put his heart and soul into, would eventually result in his imminent death.” Nick finished.

Clint scoffed. “You have it memorized?”

“It was a good line,” Nick replied, defensive.

“It is,” Steve said, raising a hand to mollify him. He couldn’t let the conversation go off the rails again. “It was a great line, but you can’t let it come true. Because if you write it, it’ll happen. Just like everything else you’ve written.”

A stricken look washed over Nick’s face.

“You haven’t written it,  _ right _ ?” Steve demanded.

“He has,” Natasha piped up, walking out of Nick’s study. No one noticed that she had slipped in there. She was holding a sheaf of loose papers. “He just hasn’t typed it up yet.”

“Great,” Bucky clapped his hands together. “Let’s burn the sucker.” He pointed at Nick. “You write Steve a happy ending and then everyone goes home and no one dies.”

Steve looked at Natasha, who was staring at the papers with a slight frown. “Nat?”

Natasha looked over at Fury who nodded. “I think you should read these first,” She passed over the sheets to Steve who handled them carefully.

He stared at the sheets of paper, line after line of black ink forming words that strung together could literally mean life or death.

Still, he found himself curious about what it could contain.

“Steve—” Bucky said with a warning growl, knowing exactly what was going on in Steve’s head.

“I’m just going to read them, Buck. I’m on vacation, might as well settle down with a good book.”

-

Steve parked himself at a cafe while Bucky and Natasha went back to the campus and Sam went to the VA center.

He read through the lunchtime rush, read as the crowd thinned and grew thick again. He read as he ate dinner. Almost didn’t notice as the staff around him started to clean up.

Ten minutes before closing, he finally turned the last page. 

Steve put the whole manuscript back into its packet, walked over to Nick’s apartment and dropped it into the mailbox. Then he walked home to find Bucky already waiting for him.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time after Bucky had fallen asleep.

At three am, he slowly shifted out of Bucky’s embrace and reached for his phone. He typed out the message as quickly as he could then wrapped himself around Bucky once more.

Bucky snorted in his sleep. He pushed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, his deep, rhythmic breathing fluttering against Steve’s skin.

Steve tightened his arms around Bucky and when he finally drifted to sleep. He was completely at peace.

-

Fury’s phone lit the darkened room as it signaled the arrival of a message.

Two words that would change a number of lives.

“Do it.”

-

_ That particular day, Steve went through his morning as if it wasn’t his last. _

_ He grumbled as he woke to his alarm for the last time. _

_ He showered quickly for the last time. _

_ He tugged on his brown leather jacket for the last time. _

_ And he kissed his boyfriend goodbye for the last time. _

_ What Steve had never understood was that despite everything he had been through in his life, everything he had given and everything that had been taken away, the world would always want more. It would always take more. _

_ As he drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, the noise alerted him to the accident before he actually saw it. _

_ Brakes screeched. _

_ Metal scraped metal. _

_ Cars slammed against each other. _

_ A scream for help pierced through the chaos and Steve reacted on instinct. He gunned his engine, dodging obstacle after obstacle.  _

_ Time slowly trickled away. _

_ It slowed down around him even as he flew on his bike. He spotted the source of the scream. A car that had broken through the barrier, rear wheels were dangling off the bridge. The only thing keeping it from falling was delicate balance and a mother’s prayer. _

_ He left his bike as soon as he was close enough and ran the rest of the way. _

_ A woman with a dark red line dripping down her forehead looked at him with wild, scared eyes. She was half-way inside the car, trying to reach a small child, probably four or five with deep blue eyes. _

_ A beating piece of her heart. _

_ Steve’s mind was quiet as he carefully took the mother’s place. His own heart, however, was loud. Cacophonous. It beat against his chest as he lent his weight to the car, hoping that between his heft and the heaviness in his heart, it would give him a few precious seconds to save the child inside. _

_ He reached out his hand, and the child, seeming to have found courage within his tiny frame, grabbed the lifeline Steve was offering. _

_ Steve heaved a sigh of relief as the child crawled into his lap.  _

_ He handed the child to the weeping mother just as a loud groan ripped through the car. _

_ In less than a second, he was falling. _

_ The world would always want more. It would always take more. This time it was taking Steve with it. _

_ Steve clutched the seat as he fell, eyes squeezed shut. _

_ His heart screamed for Bucky the whole way down. _

-

There was a baseball game.

Why was there a baseball game?

“Curve ball, high and outside for ball one. They’re tied, 4-4. And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow’s capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at—” 

“Turn... turn it off,” Steve whispered. His throat burned and his mouth was dry as cotton, but the last thing he wanted to hear was another fucking voiceover.

He struggled to lift his eyelids, barely seeing the way Bucky leapt up from the chair he was sitting in. Not even bothering to do what Steve asked, he reached for the call button next Steve’s bed

“Buck?” Steve croaked.

The glare Bucky gave him immediately shut him up. Bucky seemed to take pity on him though and helped him take a sip of water through a straw.

Steve coughed lightly as the door opened and a nurse walked in.

“Oh good, you’re awake. You gave your fella here quite a fright,” she checked on Steve’s gauzes then gave Bucky a smile. “Dr. Banner will be along shortly.”

“You can’t give him a once over?” Bucky asked, turning on the charm. “Make sure he hasn’t scrambled his brain so I don’t worry?”

“I’ll do some routine tests, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for Dr. Banner. He was just at the station five minutes ago. I’m sure he’s already on his way here.”

Bucky kept a polite smile on his face as the nurse worked. He still refused to talk to Steve.

Huffing slightly, Steve figured he had the right to be mad, but he was alive wasn’t he? He deserved a little credit for that.

The door opened again and a curly-haired man walked in, holding a tablet. “I hear our hero’s woken up.”

Bucky scoffed and Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Banner. I’m your head surgeon. Do you remember your name?”

“I’m—” Steve cleared his throat but his voice still sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

“Great. Do you remember me?”

Steve nodded. “You’re Sam’s friend.”

“That’s good. I just need to ask a couple more questions.” He threw a couple more questions at Steve and smiled with every answer. “Good. It seems there’s no lasting effect of your time underwater. You were down there for a while. It was lucky Bucky got you out when he did.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. He looked over at Bucky who was still glaring at him.

“Does that mean he’s going to be alright?” Bucky asked.

“Barring any complications, he seems to be healing nicely. I’d say to keep off the motorcycle for a while.”

Dr. Banner and the nurse left and Steve was left with a glowering Bucky.

“Buck—”

“If you didn’t already have a dozen broken bones I’d break you a couple of new ones,” Bucky growled at him. His compunction towards civility seemed to have escaped him since they no longer had an audience. “I cannot believe you did what you did.”

“I saved her life!”

“And risked yours!”

“I did the right thing,” Steve insisted. “And I’d do it again.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped. “God help me, that’s why I love you, you punk.”

A smile broke out on Steve’s face, followed immediately by a wave of pain.

“Ow,” he moaned pitifully.

Bucky shook his head, placing a soft, gently kiss on Steve’s lips. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot,” Steve shot back. He settled on the pillows as Bucky made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Steve too much. “Dr. Banner said you saved me?”

“I knew you were going to do something stupid so I went to Fury’s and forced him to write me in. I jumped in the water after you.”

“Buck—” Steve stared at Bucky sappily, feeling like his heart was going to pour out of his eye sockets. Maybe he should leave the poetic metaphors to Nick. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I told you. ‘til the end of the line, pal. And that wasn’t the last line of our story yet.”

_ As Bucky carefully placed a kiss on Steve’s forehead, Steve finally felt as if a sort of balance had been achieved. The world could still be cruel, it could still be selfish, but it could also be good and generous. For every asshole he worked with, were five more people he would cherish. For every friendship that had changed, a new kind of relationship could blossom. For every lonely, cruel truth, there was a new glorious perspective. For all the things that the world had taken from Steve, the world had given just as much back.  _

_ And for the times when they and the universe didn’t agree? At least now both Steve and Bucky knew, they could always elect to ignore life’s stupid ass decision and make their own. _

_ The end. _

_-_

 

__  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed the ride as much as I did! This was an adventure from start to finish and I'm glad I could finally share it.
> 
> If you're so inclined follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/djchika_) and/or [tumblr!](http://djchika.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers but there's no MCD I promise!


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